Just Another Cliché High School Sitcom
by xoblackstairsxo
Summary: Jace Lightwood's your typical angsty high school junior. A jock, sure, but anti-social, self-sufficient, not digging the hopelessness that seems to be teenage-kind. Clary Morgenstern got caught with the wrong brother at the wrong time. Watch the two meet and find friendship and love in a terribly cliché fashion, with comedic twists along the way. AU ALL HUMAN. EVENTUALLY CLACE.
1. Chapter 1

"What the fuck now, Jordan."

The only thing I've learned about Jordan Kyle during our two yearlong acquaintance can be summed up by saying that the boy is about as cliché, stereotypical douche bag jock as you can possibly get from a high school quarterback. Despite this, he was practically sobbing into my eardrums. I would almost feel sorry for the guy, had it not been for the fact that it was a little past one o'clock _in the morning._ On. A. Tuesday.

"I don't know, man. It sucks. I just—sometimes I like to listen to Taylor Swift because she makes me feel understood, you know. She just gets me in a way Kanye never could."

He was slurring into my cell phone, presumably single and shit-faced. A part of me wonders if he's shit-faced because of the breakup or if he's single because he was unforgivably shit-faced. Another fraction tries to decipher which drug is taking its lovely little joyride throughout Kyle's body (Cannabis? Liquor? Xanax? Crack? Should I prepare the stoner food or the vomit bag?) The overwhelming majority, however, advocated for the comfort of much needed sleep.

"Where. Are. You." My irritation attacked those three words with a certain brand of venom obvious to most onlookers. Most would stop the bullshit, flinch even though the worst I could do to him was figuratively bite his head off on speaker phone. However, this demonic creation continued slurring his song, so my contention was that he was too drunk to notice. Wonderful. _Of course_ he had to be too drunk to notice. "Tell me where you are. I'm picking you up."

"I-I can drive myself. I just-man I just wanted to call and tell you about Taylor Swift's new hit single. She just-she just shaked it off, you know. You know, you should _shake it off, shake it off. Oh oh oh._"

First off, someone really needs to tell this shithead that just because he's number 21 on the Idris football team doesn't actually mean he's old enough to legally inhale twelve bottles of Scotch. Secondly, _Shake It Off_ is hardly a new single; I mean, has he even bothered to listen to a radio in the past three months? Even I know that, and I could care less about Kyle's apparent lifestyle guru.

"Seriously. I need an address, so I can cart your pathetic ass home."

"Jacey, don't be such a… cumslut."

It was times like these where I even wondered why I had any friends, much less friends like Jordan Kyle.

"Add. Dress. R-Jordan, Stop singing!"

"Add Dressing? I don't see any salads," I hear rustling in the background, followed by the mutual consensus of salad's truly majestical aura and beauty through the cheers and chants of what I can only assume are fellow high school douche bags, "no wait, we can make fruit salad! Yummy, yummy!"

I was losing hope in ever extracting an address from this asshole, who not only has at this point proven his apparent cognitive dysfunction under the influence of, well… whatever he's under the influence of—who can even be sure at this point—he also feels the need to break into song as if his life is some kind of random but infinitely terrible rendition of High School Musical. (Read: Poetry for my not-so-endearing, drunk colleague in 'HSM Minor' by Jace Lightwood. I call this piece _Shitfaced Together_: "We're all shit-faced together. Once we know, that we are, we're all drunk, we'll see double. We're all shit-faced together. And it shows. That we will, Drink Away, Any Hopes, Of Dreams Coming True.")

God, I don't think I even wanted to crash the salad cult at this point anyways. What sounded better was some nice, warranted hours of warmth, sleep, sheep, and—

"Hey, hey Jace. We should—you should come. Have some… fun. Shake. Shake it off. And play, like the—like the—players in that song" I roll my eyes, unsure of whether to break into hysterical fits of laughter or tears. At this point the raging idiot had sufficiently drowned his sorrows and willowing into recreational drug use, so at least I wouldn't be expected to remedy 'the pain' with the god-awful 'it gets better' mantra.

"We-we're at the LBs. The big L's… you know, Joe… Jonas? No, no, no, John's so tan. John-A-Tan! That's the dude! At the part-ty… Come bro."

Oh, I was going to come, all right. And I was going to drag his happy ass home and out of my sight, even if I had to hit him over the head with a shovel to do so.

* * *

I grab Maryse's keys from the front room—careful not to wake her up and consequently subject myself to her wrath because of my favorite idiot's sins—and storm off in a hurry, anxious to return the disoriented quarterback to his undoubtedly more confused, oblivious parents. If I play my cards right, I can be back to heating pads and fuzzy slippers around 2am while witnessing part of a reality TV-esque, Kyle family scream out moment, and I intended to do so.

Somewhere in the drive over to the linebacker's house, the bubbling fit of rage felt around 1:05am—upon waking up and hating my choice in high school comradeship—had gradually faded into something of mild aggravation. I ended up pulling in to the linebacker's driveway at 1:20am. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't drunken teenagers out on a nice enough lawn, swaying to the beat of Barney jams while holding on to their respective Heinekens. Clearly, I'm underestimating the degenerating side-effects intoxication has on the human brain. Or maybe I'm just not giving my species enough accountability for their capacity of utter insanity.

These types of predicaments are the pressing issues about being a teenager in the twenty-first century that most pretentious, 'cultured' journalists strive to mock when referring to the #Selfie generation. It's a moment where the first thing in my mind is debating between which code of conduct is more appropriate; I've limited my options to taking a picture of these sacks of human garbage and posting it to my Tumblr dash (or at least a quick snap chat to like, everyone on my contact list) or to report this Kodak moment to the authorities and weep/complain/pray for the future of humanity in a suburban-white-mother-like fashion.

Sadly, what I'm attributing to my hormones or something compels me to pass up this golden opportunity to be Tumblr famous (and maybe even on local television. Who doesn't want an interview from a high school jock that was actually sober at a kegger party? And you know, his additional detailed account on said drunken teens singing children's rhymes at said kegger party. This is CNN News type stuff. Might as well get my fifty minutes of fame out of the way early in life) and prompts me to find previously mentioned, bitchtastic, waste of humanity Jordan Kyle in a sea of buzzed bodies.

It takes a few minutes to find Jordan in the packed room, and when I do, he just has to be on the other side on the house that seems to be more like a mansion from what I assume to be a living room. I check my phone. 1:30. I'm still making good time, and the allure of darkness and dreaming motivates me to crash my body against the grinding current of my peers. And when I finally get there—oh, _of course_ he's halfway up a stairway with a girl in the freaking house-mansion. _Great_.

I run up the hallway, easily catching up with my stumbling moron and his girl in tandem. Before latching onto a sizeable portion of his long-flowing hair, I practically collide with said girl—not enough impact to physically knock her over or anything, but enough to make her unsteady her footing a bit—and find myself looking down at a girl. Well, no. More like a spit-fire leprechaun.

* * *

**I don't own TMI character stuff nor will I ever own TMI character stuff. All I own is my parody of "We're All In This Together."  
This is open for continuation. Idk, I kind of like this as a one-shot, however if you guys like it enough, I'll make it a chapter story. It was fun to write soooo~  
I would appreciate reviews and feedback. ^-^ Constructive criticism is always wonderful, darlings.**


	2. Chapter 2

Most people would logically consider running into spitfire leprechauns as coincidence.

Some superstitious people would contend that it's somehow bad luck.

Others would attempt to be a good friend to Jordan and try to remedy the dysfunction that this situation presents for him by thinking of something to do. (Friend gets in break up with girl. Friend drinks away pain. Friend calls you. You come for friend. Friend is ascending stairs with other girl in a very suspicious, they may want to do the deed way. You should leave them alone / talk your friend out of a stupor.)

You see, all of those reactions were ideal in this scenario—maybe even expected from normal people—but from sociopathic millennials like myself, I of course mirrored neither of these things. I simply thought nothing of what was happening or of the girl beneath me.

Well actually, I was understandably thinking about starting a Kill Kyle 2015 campaign at my school, but that was both justifiable and beside the point. What I chose to do in this moment was ignore my cliché calling to the firecracker and the story behind her relevance in bitchtastic's drunken haze in my pursuit to get out of there.

This is all to say that I basically ignored my first encounter of what observant fiction reading eyes would deem to be 'my first run in with true, cliché love.' In fact, I appeared as if I blatantly just didn't give a shit.

"Jordan. We're leaving."

The spitfire leprechaun looks up with a face contorted into what I make out as aggravation.

Her skin is pale, seemingly translucent against the flashing lights of this mansion-house. Sickingly pale and angry chic doesn't work for most people, but leprechaun over here rocks it like a cover girl. The only colors I can decipher against her muted palette of skin are the piercing, bright green of her eyes and hair a shade of lit up red.

The girl was like a personal, pretty distraction. She was beautiful in a very short, soul-stealing, ginger kind of way. Her body was an undefinable type of beauty, the type that words didn't really do justice for. It was a fine sight really, something I would've appreciated, if not for strobe lights, loud music, the 1:30am display on my phone, and her seemingly terrible personality.

"But Jacey, I was just about to have some fun with… Clare-Bear," Jordan slurs, still intoxicated next to the Clare-Bear.

"Yeah. No. How about go." She snaps. Firecracker looks up into my eyes again. Her own eyes scream sarcasm, almost as if they're too lazy to reveal anything else in that tinkering brain of hers.

"Baby, you're so… mean to me," drunken Jordan mutters, contorting his body around so that he's facing neither 'Clare-bear' nor me.

I was wondering who exactly he was talking to: me or her. If he was—most likely—addressing her, I'm not sure if he says this to illicit pity from a girl who is clearly unwilling to give it to him or if he genuinely believes that the care bear chick was being cruel to him.

Either way, I couldn't help but stop for a couple of seconds and try to figure her out a—"Seriously, stop standing around here like a pile of bricks. Take him. He's your problem now."

And that was it. That was apparently my first time—according to the cliché gods and soon, all—meeting who was destined to be my love.

I'd be lying if I said that our brand of cliché was love at first sight because it was more certainly not that type of affection in the slightest. However, as I descended the stairs that we were halfway up in the first place, I couldn't help think about how intrigued I was by a girl with a sharp tongue and what appeared to be a cold heart, but was somehow apparently nicknamed after a care bear, and some weird part of me couldn't help but smile because of it.

* * *

"Jordan. Kyle." When Mrs. Kyle reprimands him, she enunciates his full name sharply, separately in a way that didn't suit Jordan. She also tended to convey her point by pointing at the teenager with a stern finger as she yelled at him, a gesture that I couldn't say I fully understood myself.

Jordan had enough sense and sobriety at this point to stay silent.

I have to admit, a part of me was sad when Jordan's mom started laying into him. I mean, his girlfriend did just break up with him, and the guy really didn't know how else to handle the situation and-no actually, what am I even saying? The kid's ruining the vows I have with my mattress. ('Till school do us part.) he deserves whatever's coming for him.

"Imagine if Jace didn't find you. What could have happened if you were… if you were—god, I don't even want to think about it." It was hard to tell whether his mother was angry or relieved that her son was okay. Either way, it was amusing to watch.

"Jace, again, thank you. What would we do without you? What would we-"

"Really, it's fine, Mrs. Kyle. I'm just happy to see he's okay." And banned from high school keggers. And in huge colossal trouble. And never drinking a drop of alcohol ever again. And in huge. colossal. trouble. And never. drinking. a drop. of alcohol. ever. again. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Kyle?"

Mrs. Kyle has a creepy smile plastered against her face, the kind of artificial smile you give when you want to yell at your husband, but you're on a phone call with your boss. Her eyes are too small, teeth too big. She brings her long fingers to her face as she responds, almost as if she's working out quantum mechanics to a question that should be simple. "No, dear. Thank you, dear." she says. Choppy syntax. Chipped tone. The forced mood shift was odd. The entire thing was weird. weird. weird…

I stomp out of the house with the singular thought "like mother, like son."

* * *

Sneaking back into the house was a tired blur, a montage of carrot chomping, quiet door opening, and managing to almost trip up the stairs, a feat that I am not planning on mentioning to Coach Starkweather anytime soon. An iPhone screen flashes in my face 2:10. It's been a full hour since Jordan disrupted my rest, and my body melts back into the mattress in response. My heating pad, covers, and I become one through the night and continue our union comprised of dreams with leprechauns and Heineken until...

"What the absolute fuck, Jace Lightwood?"

* * *

**wow okay hello.**

**So... I got a review on this story requesting for me to continue it haha, so here I am. **

**Hope you guys enjoy what I have so far. Praise, constructive criticism. Anything is useful, so please review~ **


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